


Little Feet & Big Hearts

by RedellaRed2001



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Autism, F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-04 15:29:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11558109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedellaRed2001/pseuds/RedellaRed2001
Summary: After the birth of their second child, Astoria cut off all ties with Draco and their children with the excuse that 'it was never what she wanted'. Left as a single parent with no family, Draco struggles to be everything he's supposed to be. A father, a friend, a business man. He isn't even sure what he wants to be anymore, other than the best father he can to his children.Until Charlie Weasley sticks his annoyingly perfectly shaped nose in, and completely fucks up everything Draco Malfoy ever thought about himself.





	1. Till Death (Or Divorce) Do Us Part

 

 

 

 

> **Draco's POV:**

 

"Astoria please," I beg, my eyes trailing over the bags stuffed with her belongings, "Think of the children."

She scoffs at me, "In all honesty, Draco, I couldn't care less about the bloody children."

That hurts more than anything else she could've thrown at me. There isn't an insult on this planet that she could spit at me that would ever sting more than 'I couldn't care less about the bloody children'. How can she not _care_? They're her _children_ , does that mean nothing to her?. She carried them for nine months! She's seen them grow and progress. They have a piece of her in them, how can't she care about _that_?

"Astoria we can fix this," I try again, "Let us try." If my father could see me begging, short of being on my knees, he'd be disgusted. _Is this what you've sunk to_ , he'd say.

"Fix what?" She replies dismissively, her expression blank and uncaring, "I never wanted this. I never wanted to be married to the likes of _you_ ; an ex-Deatheater who cannot even walk through Diagon Alley alone. I never wanted either of those snot-nosed brats."

It stings worse than the aftermath of the _Crucio_ every time she insults them, every time she repeats that she has never wanted them. It's unfair, to take jabs at the young that can't defend themselves. I know I'm a coward, I know what I am, but there's not a taint on their pure little souls like there is mine. For Merlin's sake, she can say anything she likes about me but does she have to go for the children?

"Astoria–"

"Oh stop _whining_ Draco," Astoria snaps, moving closer to brush her hand against my cheek condescendingly, "Desperation never looked good on you."

I pause, watching her turn away from me and walk over to the floor length mirror she'd made me buy her as a wedding gift. It's expensive, made from real gold. She smooths her hair down, attempting to make it look even tidier than it already does. I can't believe she's throwing this away, everything we have. I know we're not perfect, I know we don't _love_ each other, I'm under no illusion of a happy marriage; but the children... I thought we'd stick it out, even if just for them. She acts like she's the only one who sacrificed, the only one who suffered. I don't even bloody fancy women, but do you see me complaining and throwing a hissy fit? No. We have two beautiful, pure children, and she doesn't give a single damn about how her leaving will affect them.

I know she isn't involved with them a lot. I'm not _naïve_. If she can get out of spending time with them, she will. I'm not stupid enough to be able to convince myself that she _loves_ them - she's _never_ loved them - but I thought that she cared just enough to not rip any chance of a relationship with their mother away from them. They deserve a two parents that love and cherish them, every kid does.They're only small: Scorpius's four, and Astrid is barely four months.

I deflate, "The children-"

"The children are your concern, they always have been. They're far too annoying for my liking." Astoria cuts em off again, not even bothering to listen to what I'm saying, although she never has, "The baby cries all the time, always wants attention. Do you know how _tiring_ that is? Don't even get me started on Scorpius! There's something _wrong_ with that kid, I'm telling you. He's always dazing off into space, doesn't talk to people, he has a weird obsession with Dragons; he's _strange_ , Draco. There's something wrong with him."

It's tiring for _you_? _For you_? I spend every waking moment with them, and it's tiring _for you_? I'm the one who makes them breakfast and bathes them and feeds them. I'm the one who reads Scorpius the same story every night before bed, who calms him down when he has an episode and who changes every aspect of my life to accommodate him. I'm the one who wakes up to do the night feeds for Astrid, or changes her nappy, or takes her to appointments with the medi-witch to get her weighed or to get her check up done. Astoria wants to talk about how _tiring_ it is to be a bloody parent? She doesn't know the first thing about being a parent. How _dare_ she complain about doing the normal parenting things when she's _never_ the one that does them! Babies need attention all the time, that's how babies _work_. What did she expect? That Astrid would get up and make _herself_ a bottle? There's nothing wrong with Scorpius, she _knows_ that. He talks, just because he isn't a _social butterfly_ doesn't mean he doesn't _talk_.

"He's _autistic_ , Astoria, there's nothing wrong with him." I tell her, the fight leaving me as I realise nothing I say will make the slightest difference. She's already made up her mind, and she isn't about to be persuaded any time soon.

She sneers at me, a look of disgust draping over her features, "The fact he has a muggle disease says enough about what's wrong with him."

For one, she can hardly moan about the fact he has a muggle-identified condition when Pure-Blood families have been interbreeding for centuries (nobody tell my father I said that, Merlin), so technically it's probably our ancestors fault he has it. She knows full well it's not a disease, you can't catch Autism, its not transferable by touch or breathing space. Perhaps that's the excuse she's been using when she doesn't go anywhere near our son.

"It's not a disease, Astoria, did you even _listen_ to the medi-witch?" I don't know why I'm even trying, she doesn't care; and yet I can't stop, I owe it to them to try, don't I? I owe it to the kids to at least try to convince their mother that she shouldn't leave.

She rolls her eyes at me, her hand clasping her bags tightly. She's really doing this, she's really leaving. When I agreed to marry her, I never thought that Astoria would be this selfish, that she'd completely abandon them. She can end our marriage, she can run off with whoever she likes, but can't she just visit _them_? Can't she at least try? They deserve that much, they deserve so much _more_ than that.

Astoria makes her way over to the fireplace, dropping her bags in it and taking a handful of powder into her left hand. She's not even going to say goodbye? Just run off in the middle of the night? How _classy_. Where is she even going to go, this late at night? Daphne's, maybe, but I doubt it. Astoria's sister has been a close friend of mine throughout my school years, and she adores Astrid and Scorpius. She'd never approve of what Astoria's doing, and Astoria has never been good at taking criticism. She might go to her parents manor, they never liked me much.

She casts me one last look, watching me as if I'm a disappointment. Maybe I am, maybe I'm the most disappointing husband on the planet, in all of  _England_ , but at least I'm not abandoning my children. At least I'm not up and leaving in the middle of the night without the need to say goodbye to them. The stare she gives me reminds me of the one my mother used on me the time I broke her favourite priceless, Japanese vase when I was five. Reminds me of the cold stare my father sends me every time I disappoint him, every time I'm not what he wants me to be. Astoria tilts her head, and sighs.

"You couldn't even give me a manor." She says, as if the four bedroom cottage I provided instead was never enough for her, as if the beautiful children and the money was never going to be enough.

Then she's gone, the fireplace is empty, and I'm left to ponder how exactly my life got _this_ fucked up.

 

* * *

 

I wake up to the sound of Lego Bricks being put together rather clumsily. I've grown used to the sound. When Scorp becomes fixated on something, he finds it very difficult to stop. He likes them because they have no limit to their creativity, and they occupy his hands. He likes to fiddle with things. They aren't the worst toys, to be fair. Fairly cheap, too. They're muggle toys, and I wouldn't know where the hell to get them if I went looking for a store; but I do most of my shopping ordered in, so it's never a problem.

Turning my head, I see my son sat quietly on Astoria's side of the bed, his grey eyes downcasted to the pile of different coloured Lego Bricks on the bed spread in front of him. In one hand, he has a red Lego Brick sculpture that looks half of a small bridge. His shoulder lengthed blonde hair falls in it's usual straight strands, some bits of it falling in his eyes - not that he notices, or cares. He's still in his Spider-Man pyjamas; a long sleeved t-shirt with dark grey sleeves, the rest red, and a picture of the muggle superhero, Spider-Man, on the front, along with the red pyjama bottoms. They're his favourite set of pyjamas, and he rarely goes to bed in anything else. His legs are crossed, and he seems entirely focussed on whatever it is he's doing with those bricks.

How did he even get them all in here, anyway? It's not unusual for him to wander in here in the mornings - it used to annoy the hell out of Astoria, who'd complain for hours after wards every time - but he'd usually sit on the floor, or at the end of the bed. He doesn't like to carry things by himself, hurts his arms or something, maybe he brought the bricks in one-by-one.

"You alright, Scorp?" I say, my voice sounding groggy and worn from sleep. I push myself up, careful not to knock any of his bricks over as I rest my back against the headboard of the bed. It's peaceful in the mornings, especially around our cottage. The country side doesn't have the dismal sounds of people buzzing around outside your windows or reporters trying to get pictures of your kids. I like it out here, a lot more than I ever liked living at Malfoy Manor.

He hums, but doesn't reply. It doesn't matter, not really. It's never worried me - it was Astoria who made us go to the doctors. If he wants to talk he will, if he doesn't then he won't. There's nothing wrong with his speech, he is capable of upholding decent convocations, he just chooses not to. What's wrong with that? He doesn't have to talk to people he doesn't want to talk to. Just because he doesn't talk back, doesn't mean you shouldn't talk to him. I remember the medi-witch telling Astoria and I that it's important we try to include him in convocations, that we shouldn't exclude him just because he might not reply. Encourage, but don't force. Astoria never understood that, she always tried to yell at him as if that would help. All it did was make him cry, run and hide away in the darkest room he could find.

Not that it matters anymore, Astoria's long gone by now. Merlin knows where.

"What're you building?" I ask him, not touching any of the bricks. He has to hand one to you before you touch them, he can be possessive about those sort of things. It upsets him if you intrude.

He lifts his head and shows me the sculpture in his hand, before going back to adding more bricks to it. He's peaceful, although he always has been a peaceful child. That's one of the reasons I could never understand Astoria's problem with it. Surely she'd rather have a quiet child who does as he's told, than a child that kicks off when he doesn't get what he wants. Maybe Astoria wanted him to kick off, maybe she wanted him to act like the other spoilt brat her friends have.

"Is it a... house?" I ask, despite knowing it isn't.

Scorpius lifts his eyes to meet mine, smiling, and shakes his head. He seems to think my stupidity is entertaining. At least someone does, I suppose.

"What about... a car?"

He shakes his head again, still smiling. It's this that keeps me going. The look on his face right now gets me through the worst situations I face. It's knowing I'm coming home to him, and Astrid, that gets me through a mandatory trip to Diagon Alley when we're running low on groceries. Knowing that no matter what happens, I'll always have this, I'll always have Scorp, and Astrid, and I'll always have my family - the most important thing in my whole world.

"What about a cat? Is it a cat?"

He shakes his head with a larger grin, "It's a bridge, Daddy." I hide my surprise at his response, and instead choose to act as if it's perfectly normal. _Encourage, don't force_.

"Ah yes, I can see it now." I say, smiling at him as he scoots closer to me, "You're a brilliant sculptor."

He turns his attention back to the bricks, but hums all the same, "What's a sculper, Daddy?"

"A sculptor?" I reply to him eagerly, noticing how much more talkative he is when his mother isn't around, "It's someone who makes things out of wood, or bricks, or cement, or stones, or clay. They make statues or buildings, sometimes they make bridges too." I glance down at the Lego bridge in his hands.

"Can I be a sculper?" He asks.

The question seems so innocent, but it sends me back to a time where I asked my father if I could be a Baker, so that I could make cakes all day long, and he told me I belonged with the family business. It reminds me of every dream I ever had that my father shot down, of every chance I could've taken that my father took from me. It reminds me of a childhood my father ruined, and of a future he tainted for me.

"You, Scorp, can be anything you want to be." I tell him, and I promise myself that I'll make sure that happens for him. No matter what. No matter what it is, he'll have it.

"Even a sculper?"

I smile at him brightly, reaching out to brush a strand of hair away from his face as he concentrates on his bridge-building, " _Especially_ a sculper."

A baby's cry erupts, signalling that Astrid has _finally_ decided to get up. She's probably hungry, she's _always_ hungry. Her room is only across the hall from ours (mine, now, I suppose), whereas Scorp's is down the hall. The guest room is opposite Scorp's bedroom, and the bathroom is down the other end of the hall. Astoria never liked the cottage, I don't think. It's not fancy enough for her, not _big_ enough. It's not a manor, and so it's not what she wants. When Astoria doesn't get what she wants, well, you soon know about it.

But it's good for Scorp, much better than the manor (which is now in possession of my parents) was, and that's all that ever really mattered to me. The quietness of it lulls him, and Astrid sleeps better in a more homely setting than she ever did at the manor. It's enough, it's nice, and lovely, and so different from the place I grew up in that to compare the two is impossible.

It's home.

I glance over at him, his peaceful aura radiating as he plays with his Lego, "Come on Scorp, let's go get your sister up for breakfast."


	2. A Mother's Wrath

 

 

> **Charlie's POV:**

 

_Charlie,_

_We know you've been awfully busy lately, but we really would love for you to come home for the summer. The children have missed you terribly, and even Bill's taking the time out to be with us this year!_

I scoff, thinking to myself how Bill takes time out _every_ year, for _every_ family obligation. _Bill_ has that luxury, _I_ do not. Something my mother seems to never understand. Believe it or not, Dragons don't follow a strict bedtime schedule.

_Fleur is having another baby, isn't that wonderful? A boy this time, they reckon. I was rather cautious about the idea at first, after all they've only just had Dominique._

Dominique is two, I think. Plus, the idea that Feur's popping out another kid is hardly surprising. Bill's always had it in his head that he wants a big family like the one we grew up in. Merlin knows why, considering how stressful kids can be. I can guarantee this won't be the last pregnancy Fleur experiences, the poor lass.

_We'd really love you to join us, darling. We've all missed you ever so much. You haven't even met Lily yet! Ginny's most upset with you about that, by the way._

Good for Ginny. _Unfortunately_ , Ginny doesn't always get what she wants, despite popular belief.

_I know you love your Dragons, Charles, but can't you come home for the summer? You haven't been home in so long. I worry that you get so lonely in your little hut in Romania._

_Hoping to hear from you soon,_

_Love, Mum x_

I toss the letter onto the table, letting out a frustrated sigh. Mum's always poking her nose in. She's got it in her head that I'm going mental from all the solitude up here in the mountains. Nobody ever stops to think about how I _like_ the solitude. No one fussing and chatting in my ear all the time. Just me and the dragons, occasionally the other dragon keepers. I _like_ it, it might not work for my _mother_ , but it works for me.

Also, I hate it when she calls me Charles. Makes me feel like I'm getting in trouble.

I think she's more interested in dragging me home to marry me off, than she is about me coming to meet Ginny's latest sprout. _You should be married by now_ , she always says. I'm only twenty-nine, she acts like I'm ninety or something. In Mum's opinion, I should have about eight kids by now and a wife. Maybe a nice little cottage somewhere and a safe and easy desk job that pays bills but brings no excitement to my life. Like I'd even be happy with a life like that. A thrill-less, picture perfect life with a bunch of noisy kids and a up her own arse wife. I don't even _like_ women, Mum _knows_ that. I've never been into women that way. Tits aren't my thing, thank you very much. But you know what she's like, when Mum's got an idea in her head she's very difficult to derail from it.

It's only summer, it's not as if it's a major event. Sure there are some birthdays during it, but really, what relevance does that have? I miss them all the time, I think my siblings would be more surprised to see me there than they would be to notice my absence.

Yes, I know, I sound more and more like a prick every day.

"Charlie mate!" Adron calls from outside my hut, his voice sounding slightly slurred from his version of pre-drinks, "Are ya comin'?"

"Yeah!" I reply, turning away from the abandoned letter on my coffee table. I push up from the sofa roughly, grabbing my jacket on the way out of the hut without so much as a glance back at the place I've made my home.

The pub isn't busy when we get there, not that it matters much to me. All I can think about is the letter on the table and the burning sensation in my gut that feels so much like _guilt_ that it makes me want to double over and throw up. I ignore it as much as I can, choosing to cover it up with Firewhiskey, Russian vodka, and Rum. Minutes turn into hours, and all I do is drink. I drink away the _guilt_ , I drink away the _loneliness_ , I drink away the _grief_. I drink away all the reasons that stop me from going home to a family that's already gotten over the war and everything they _lost_. I try so hard to drink away the thought that repeats over and over in my mind that eventually it's all I can think about. An endless loop of accusation in my head, over and over again. 

_T_ _hey got over it, Charlie, they don't care if you did._

 

* * *

 

My head pounds when I wake up, I feel like everything's on fire, and someone's hit me over the head with a metal pole over and over again. Although, considering I can't remember the majority of last night (my memory coming up blank, with maybe a few flashes of my hand wrapped around a pint of Russian Firewhiskey) it wouldn't surprise me if someone had, in fact, hit me over the head with a metal pole a couple times. Maybe I'd have even deserved it. Who knows? I wouldn't put it past myself to piss off the wrong Romanian.

With a groan emitting from the back of my throat, I force an eye open to gather a general idea of whereabouts I passed out on my way in last night. By the looks of the bookshelf in my direct eyesight, and the coffee table I drag my eyes over lazily, I managed to find my way to the sofa. Better than the last time, I suppose; I ended up waking up with a hangover and a stiff back on the floor of my kitchen. That was a fun night, but not so much a fun hangover during work the next day.

The abandoned letter on the table is enough to make my hangover ten times _worse_. I'd forgotten about that, which, to be fair, was the _entire_ point of last nights' activities. Maybe I should've hidden the blasted thing away somewhere so I could forget about it forever and live my life in peace. If I could be so lucky.

"CHARLIE WEASLEY!"

 _Ouch_. For fucks sake, I should've known better than to think I could get away with a peaceful life. My mother's _Molly Weasley_. Should've known the letter wouldn't be the end of it, it never is. Maybe she could tone it down a bit, though, my head's fucking pounding.

"Get over here right this instant." Mum snaps, her screechy tone sending a tremor of pain through my skull. Ah, _fuck_ , that hurts.

Might as well get this over with, right? It's not like she's going away any time soon. She's _excellent_ at waiting me out. Always has been, even when I was a kid. So I get up, albeit rather reluctantly, and walk over to the fireplace as quickly as my sleep-dead legs will allow. The fireplace presents my mother's face as _more_ red than usual (if that's even possible), and the woman glares up at me with a tense face and a scowl deepening on her lips. She looks _so very_ happy.  _Oh_ , I can just tell I'm going to _love_ this convocation.

"Are you hungover?" At my lack of reply she scoffs, "It's a _weekday_ Charlie Weasley! You handle dragons! Of _all_ the _irresponsible_ things you could do!"

How long are you required to put up with your mother's screeching before you cut off the Floo connection? Add that question to the many others I've got that are _unanswered_.

"I'm not on shift today." I supply in an effort to keep her quiet. I _really_ don't want to have to explain to Adron why he can hear my Mum screeching through his wall. That convocation isn't one that I ever look forward to having.

"I'm aware," Then _why_ are you shouting at me about being hungover? "You're also not on shift for the entirety of the summer. I spoke with your supervisor."

She did _what_? She can't be _serious_.

The look on her face tells me otherwise. _For merlin's sake_ , why can't she just mind her own business for once in her life? Even now, at twenty-nine years old, she's still trying to control every aspect of my life. apparently Romania isn't at enough away, yet.

"What the _fuck_ Mum!" The raise in my voice earns an eyebrow-raise from her, "You had _no right_ to do that!" My hangover's completely forgotten as anger rises in me, the thought of my _mother_ discussing working hours with my _supervisor_ , like I'm an insolent child, makes my blood boil.

"Well _you_ weren't going to, were you? You'd have given me another excuse for you absence!" Mum replies, looking at me with disappointment, "Surely it can't be that difficult for you to spend _one_ summer with your family, Charlie. I know you got my letter."

I scowl, "What letter?"

"Don't lie to me Charlie Weasley, I can see it on the coffee table." Mum scolds.

Fuck, I should've definitely hid the letter. Would've saved me a whole load of fucking trouble if I'd just burnt the thing. Remind me why I haven't blocked firecalls from the Burrow yet? I really should've done, by now. Maybe that way I can escape my overbearing mother for at least five minutes.

"Lily is _three years old_ and has no clue who Uncle Charlie is." Mum says, her voice sounding tired. Maybe she's finally given up arguing with me, if I could be so lucky.

"You mean Ginny _doesn't_ talk about me? I'm insulted."

" _Charlie_." Mum says, " _Please_."

And, as much as I hate to admit it, that's all it takes for me to cave. A simple 'please' and I'm ready to do as asked. This, kiddos, is what happens when you're raised by a family of polite, loving, helpful-to-all people. So I haven't been to the Burrow in a while, so I haven't really been in contact with my family much and I tend to leave most of their letters unopened and don't come rushing to the aid of every birth or birthday. So what? It's not the end of the world, and it's not like I'm missed much. They barely notice my absence. There was too many of us in the beginning, and now there's nieces and nephews added into the mix it's only _more_ crowded. Bill misses summers at a time, too. So does Percy, Percy's barely ever home. Percy barely fucking talks to any of us anymore.

But, of course, the fact _I_ didn't turn up for a few summers in a row means all hell breaks loose and Mum's demanding I come home, calling my supervisor (which is all kinds of fucking _wrong_ , because when did my life turn into something my mother can control?). I miss a few summers, Bill has a new kid on the way, and Ginny pitches a fit about me not meeting her latest kid and Mum's practically pulling me back by my ears.

Fuck my life.


	3. Weasley Encouters

 

 

> Draco's POV:

 

The air is chillier than I expected it to be, which, I suspect, is the only reason I even _contemplated_ bringing the kids into The Leaky; to get out of the bitter cold. If I'm being honest (which Malfoys rarely are, _obviously_ ) I'm not even sure why I brought them to Diagon Alley at all. Everyone always stares and mutters snide comments under their breath. It's never a joyful and over-exciting experience, usually I spend the time pretending to be somewhere _else_. None of the shops are welcoming, nor are the people, and the majority of the time it just isn't worth the hassle. Plus, Scorp hates the crowds. Really, The Leaky probably isn't the best place to bring him.

It's not like I have many choices at hand, is it? Most places, even when I've got the kids, turn me out of their shop and refuse to serve me - even now, six years after the war. People can hold an eternal grudge, apparently: who knew?

So The Leaky is all I've got, what with it being one of the only pubs I'm not thrown out of on sight. Still, I did the sensible thing and chose a table at the back, obviously. There's no point making my presence any more overt than it already is. Scorp seems to be doing alright, at the moment anyway. He's not made much fuss about the crowding in the place (crowding I'm shamefully grateful for, since it's most likely the only thing shielding the three of us from the rest of the pubs occupants), and he seems perfectly happy to sit on the wooden stool and play with the little Hippogriff figure in his hands. That horrid, abomination of a child's toy was gifted to him by Blaise, who decided I, and my child, need a continuous reminder of the events that occurred in third year. What can I say? My best friend's the biggest arse I know. Astrid's slept most of the day away, not that I'm complaining. The more she sleeps, the less she cries. She's in her pram with her eyes firmly closed and it doesn't look like she plans on waking up any time soon. Thank _fuck_. The last thing I need is Astrid going off on one in the middle of The Leaky.

"Do you want something to drink, Scorp?" I ask, taking a seat next to him. I tug the pram closer to me with a glance at the two men sat on the table in front of ours out of habit. Everything about Diagon Alley turns me into a skittish mess; embarrassing really. Perhaps I should've gone with Pansy's idea, and moved away from London.

Scorpius looks up at me blankly, but doesn't say anything. He turns back to his Hippogriff figure, not answering my question. The flush of relief that falls over is selfish, I know that. If he doesn't make an indication that he wants a drink, then I won't have to get up and walk through all those people to get it. I won't end up with a crook in my neck from trying to keep my face as well hidden as possible (a pathetic attempt, really, my hair stands out in any crowd, anywhere). I'll do it, if Scorp wants something, but I really, _really_ don't want to. I don't even have it in me to feel ashamed of it.

My relief is short lived, as Scorp tugs on my sleeve to get my attention and nods up at me once he has it. _Great_.

Being presented with two problems at a time has never been my strong suit, I can admit. I can't exactly leave Scorp and Astrid here alone. Not only would it be completely irresponsible, it would be stupid. I'm surrounded by people who, in the months following the war, were calling for my head to be severed and hung next to my father's in the heart of the Ministry. Considering the carefully concealed anonymity of the senders of all the hate mail that ends up on my doorstep every other day, it's impossible to know if any of them are slumped in amongst the (becoming more and more aggressive) early afternoon drunks across the room from me, and I'm hardly going to risk my children's lives over a glass of blackcurrant. Not at all the actions of a good parent, and I'd rather not give the Ministry a reason to take away my most treasured valuables. The distance from our table to the bar is too much; if something were to happen, I wouldn't be able to get back here in time. The thought of leaving Scorp and Astrid alone sends my teeth grinding, my mind running through the worse scenarios it can conjure. Crap, I should never have asked him if he wanted something to drink.

 _Argh_ , but if I hadn't then I'd be a terrible guardian. I can't fucking win. 

Turing my eyes to look at Scorpius, I take in the content expression upon his lovely little face and try to take some of it for myself. I try to let it relax me. He's fine; sat on one of the most uncomfortable stools I've ever had the pleasure of sitting on, his toy in his hands, his jade-coloured coat still zipped-up tight around his body, the _ugliest_ red scarf he owns wrapped comfortably around his neck (I've _tried_ to convince him to get rid of it, I _have_ , but alas to no avail), the strands of his hair somehow straight and unkept at the same time. His nose is a little red, as are his cheeks, from where the cold had been biting away at his bare face out in the street, but he's fine, and if he can be fine, even in a room as crowded and noisy as this, then so can I.

But I can't leave him here, and I can't drag him through the crowd either. _Merlin knows_ how I'd even get the pram, and Scorp, to the bar all in one piece.

At least the noise hasn't woken Astrid yet. She's cozy, all wrapped up in her pink woollen blanket (it's the most _adorable_ thing, Pansy bought it for her in France, as a _'Welcome To The World'_ gift) and her lavender sleepsuit. The cold hadn't reached her anywhere near as much as it had Scorp, her pram acting as a warmth container. She and Scorp share the same, blonde, hair, along with having the same eyes (my eyes, thankfully, Astoria's are a muddy brown). She's a beautiful baby, I must say (in the most egocentric way I can) I produce absolutely _gorgeous_ children.

Merlin what am I going to-

Someone, a male, coughs an announcement of his presence from my side, "Excuse me."

Fuck. I can't be getting into fights, not with Scorp and Astrid right here. Not that I _ever_ go out of my way to fight, the fighting usually comes to me, like it has right now. Whatever they want: the table, my money, to give me a black eye: surely it can be arranged for a separate time. Scorp keeps humming, despite the fresh threat stood beside me, and I use the sound to ground my nerves, my fear, and push the aside. Yes, I can tolerate taking their personal ideas of punishments for my actions during the war when I'm alone, but when my children are sat at the table I find it extremely sickening that some _prick_ is going to pick a fight with me _right now_.

Fumbling for what little bravery I have distilled into my bones, I raise my head to look at the man beside me; and very quickly flinch. The man in question is, in so many words, very large. Not fat large, but a tall, muscly kind of large that has everyone younger than him cowering away from fights. Me included. This man doesn't just look like he could take me in a wand fight, but a fist one too, which pretty much secures my fate right there and then.

Except he doesn't look like he wants to fight me, in fact, he looks fairly relaxed. He has a slight smile on his lips, his eyes alight with amusement as he watches me. His clothes aren't especially expensive - I can tell on sight, thanks to my Manor upbringing - and I'm eighty percent sure they're muggle. He's stood tall, and yet his shoulders still have a slight slouch to them as he stands.

It's then that I notice his hair.

His glaringly red hair.

There's only one sort of hair that red. It's a red that I haven't seen since my days at school, since the war.

 _Weasley_ red.

He's a fucking _Weasley_ \- as if this couldn't get any worse.

"I don't want any trouble." I force the words out, knowing they need to be said if I'm to avoid any sort of confrontation. The last thing I need is to be getting into fights with a Weasley. The Ministry's been watching me like a hawk as it is, if I'm seen fighting with a Weasley I'll be in Azkaban quicker than you can say 'Deatheater'.

A grin slips it's way onto his face, "Well, it's a good job I didn't come looking for any then, ain't it?"

"Then what did you want?"

He ignores my question completely, "My name's Charlie," Smiles again, "Weasley, if you didn't already know."

"How could I have missed it?" The words are out before I can stop them. The damage already done.

I wait for the blow that never comes, instead hearing Charlie's laugh echoing around me. The openness of it surprises me, almost as much as it makes my skin bristle. His laugh is loud, loud enough to carry across the room, to the drunken slobs. All it takes is for one of them to become curious, and then I'll be done for.

That's if Weasley doesn't get to me first.

"I like you." Charlie says, after a few moments, his laugh replaced with a fresh grin, "You've got fire in you. You remind me of Norberta."

A frown finds it's way to my lips, half of me stressing over how a _Weasley_ just said he likes me, the other half confused over what the heck he's on about, "Who the hell is Norberta?"

"Our Norwegian Ridgeback on the Reserve." Charlie explains, shrugging, "She's got some fire in her too."

"Did you just compare me to a dragon?"

"Sorry, did I offend you?"

I pause for a moment, trying to get my wits about me, "I don't..." I gulp, still confused, "I don't _think_ so?"

"You don't think so?" Charlie asks, "Well, I better buy you a drink to make up for it, hadn't I?"

It takes a wink and a grin for me to finally get what's going on. He's flirting with me - in his own, weird, Weasley way. Comparing me to a venomous dragon and scaring the shit out of me is his fucked up way of flirting.

"Are you..." I raise an eyebrow at him, "Are you _flirting_ with me Weasley?"

"If you have to ask, then I'm obviously not doing it very well." He says, "It's Charlie by the way, I think I told you."

"Yes, you did."

"Excellent." Charlie grins, a strand of his long red hair falling over his eyes slightly, "So what'll you be having?"

Again, I frown, "Excuse me?"

"To drink." Charlie gestures to the bar across the room, "What do you want?"

"You're going to buy me a drink?"

With a half-frustrated-half-amused look on his face, Charlie rolls his eyes, "That's usually why someone asks someone else what they want to drink."

"You're serious?"

"Are you always going to be this difficult?"

"What do you mean _'always'_. We've only just met!"

"Oh," Charlie grins lopsidedly, shrugging, "This was me asking you out."

"Well, you're dreadful at it."

"I realise."

I glance back at Scorp, watching as he trails the Hippogriff toy along the table in front of him. Astrid shifts in her sleep, causing a rustle in the blanket she's covered in. Charlie's offer is nice. If he goes to get our drinks, then I won't have to go all the way to the bar.

"I'll have a Butterbeer," I tell him, nodding toward Scorp, "And a blackcurrant, for him."

Charlie grins, nodding enthusiastically, "Butterbeer and a blackcurrant, got it. Won't be long."

He's gone, weaving through the drunks easily. His red hair and height make him easy to spot in the crowd, my eyes following him as he gets to the bar. It takes him a few moments to grab the attention of the bartender, but when he has it he flashes a grin at the other man in the form of a greeting.

"Daddy?"

I turn back to look at Scorpius, smiling down at him, "What's up?"

"Who's that man?" He asks, his attention glued to the toy in his hand.

I reach out to brush a strand of his hair from his forehead, "Charlie Weasley. He's gone to get you some blackcurrant."

He doesn't say anything after that, quite happy to take my answer as an end to the convocation. His curiosity is a positive sign, especially if it's getting him to talk. 

My gaze returns to Charlie, watching as he talks animatedly with some bloke stood next to him, his arms flailing about as if he's explaining some sort of elaborate story. Eventually, he catches my gaze, and throws me yet another grin - almost identical to the first. He raises a hand to point toward me, leading the other bloke to turn to look toward the direction Charlie's pointing in. He sees me, rolls his eyes, and nods at whatever Charlie said. They continue to chat between themselves for a little while longer, and Charlie sends a smile my way every few moments.

Charlie Weasley, who knew?


End file.
